


Like A Good Wife

by masterlynovak



Series: Wincestmas 2016 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Frottage, M/M, Masturbating, Pining Dean, Pining Sam, Voyeurism, beatin' that meat, graphic descriptions of straight sex, handjobs but like from yourself, it's called masturbating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:38:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterlynovak/pseuds/masterlynovak
Summary: Sam is having nightmares about losing Dean, and the only person who used to be a help with that was Amelia. Now that the two have been separated, Sam asks Dean to fill the space of a nightmare-preventer. But what neither of them know, is that Dean will be filling up another space too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for ladysimoriah on www.tumblr.com for wincestmas of 2016

Sam wakes up in his own sweat, his entire body shaking. It takes him a good second before he can remember where he is (a voice in his head repeats " _ not with Amelia"  _ but he shakes the thought away).

In the bed next to him, Dean is snoring blissfully; unaware of what horrible dreams his little brother had had only seconds ago.

The dreams were the same ones he'd had until Amelia appeared, until she'd been there to keep him company during the night, to wrap her arms around him protectively (he liked being a little spoon, okay?) and make him sure that he was fine.

A job that had previously been Dean's.

Surprise or not, the dreams were always about Dean. Dean stabbing Dick in the throat, just to disappear for what felt like forever. Dean dying a million times in Mystery Spot. Dean getting his body ripped to shreds by hellhounds. You get the theme. Dean getting killed.

But Dean wasn't gone. Dean wasn't dead or stuck in a separate world (not Heaven, nor Hell. An inbetweener). Dean was alive, breathing, just a few feet away from Sam.

Slowly, he calmed himself down by listening to his brothers' breaths. Soon after that he fell asleep.

—

Dean woke up to the smell of pancakes. Not those frozen pancakes that you warm in the microwave for 30 seconds, but real, homemade pancakes, just waiting to be topped with butter and syrup.

He stepped out of bed groggily, needing to take part in this miracle. 

"Are you cooking?" he asks Sam, who's standing with his back against him, bent over the stove.

"Yeah", Sam said, matter-of-factly, turning over to Dean. "It's Thursday. I always cook on..."

He loses himself in his thoughts before ending the sentence,  a sharp memory of domestic bliss with Amelia flashing through his brain. Dean frowns at this, the mention of any life without him. 

It's not that he's not happy that Sam got to live a normal life. He's just not happy that it wasn't with him.

He doesn't have time to dwell on his jealousy further, because something from the frying pan starts smelling burnt.

"Sam!" he says loudly, snapping his fingers. "You'll ruin the food!"

Sam shakes himself out of his daze, smiles slightly and returns his focus back to the pancakes.

"I'll set the table", Dean says to absolutely no one, because that's who's listening. He eyes Sam quickly, just to take him in — the long lean of his body, the way his muscles flex under his just-right-tight shirt, the perfect curve of his... uhm... yeah, nevermind — before getting to work.

Three minutes later they're sitting across each other at a crappy motel table, eating burnt pancakes. All of them. Could've been mistaken for coal. Sam is looking displeased as he picks around his fork in them, but Dean is smiling and stuffing himself with cancer-inducing pancakes, as Sam calls them.

"I really thought I had improved at cooking", Sam says sadly. "I... I've been training a lot."

"Aw, Sammy!" Dean says, and feels like he's fourteen again, trying to convince his little brother that the stick-figure drawing of them and the Impala is great (he still has it in the bottom of his duffel). "They're not too bad if you pour half a tonne of syrup on them."

Sam gives Dean a look that could probably be used as a murder machine. 

Dean just smiles and stands up, his plate already empty. "If you want to, I can teach ya how to cook the basics."

Sam looks at him, his death look replaced by the puppy eyes that, too, are capable of death — the comfortable kind.

"Sure", Sam says. "That'd be cool."

“Damn straight, it would”, Dean says. He picks up Sam’s plate and turns around to put them in the dishwasher.

When he turns back to his little brother, he notices Sam turn his head away, face going red. Dean, as the great big brother he is, doesn’t give this a second thought, doesn’t dare to.

—

They spend the entire day cooking. It feels great. For the first time since Dean got back Sam is able to relax and not worry. Or, as much as you don’t have to worry when you almost burn down the motel room you’re renting.

By the end of the day, Sam is still a terrible cook and Dean is still a hopeless teacher, but they are both feeling happy and content, so much that it shines off them. They shower away the food that got stuck to them — separately, of course — before sliding into comfy pyjamas and their respective beds.

Sam is so happy he nearly forgets about the dreams. Though as soon as he closes his eyes, he sees pictures of him burying Dean’s dead body flashing. A LSD trip, visual wise, a sad puppy video (but one thousand times worse) emotionally wise.

He doesn’t realise he’s out of bed and crawling into Dean’s before it’s too late, and the covers are already pulled over his shoulder.

“The fuck is going on?” Dean asks and tries to turn around, but fails. Sam doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arm around his big brother and pulls him closer.

“Sam?” Dean says. Of course it’s Sam. Dean can feel it in the way his little brother tries to make himself smaller so that he can cuddle him properly, the way Sam’s strong arms fit perfectly around him, the way their bodies align perfectly against each other and the way...

“Yeah?” Sam mumbles, his mouth against Dean’s clothed back, but the vibrations are felt all over Dean’s body.

“What’s going on?” he asks, concerned.

“Nightmares.” At this, Dean finally turns around, his eyes wide in shock. Sam’s arm is placed just right around his hip, but he doesn’t have time to think about that.

“What kind of nightmares?” Dean asks. “Like… The ones before Hells Gate or...?”

“No”, Sam shakes his head against Dean’s shoulder, which he found after Dean moved around. “Just… Nightmares.”

Dean stays silent, encouraging Sam to go on. Soon, he does.

“About you. Dying. In Mystery Spot. By hellhounds.”

Dean takes a deep breath. Doesn’t say a word, afraid that it might sound a little too cheesy or weird, afraid that it might not help and that it’s unnecessary. Instead, he wraps his arms around his gigantic brother and pulls him in closely. He can feel Sam’s body becoming less tense beside him. Automatically — a, usually, post-sex reflex he developed after his time with Lisa — he lifts his arm to play with Sam’s hair, but immediately feels guilty about it. Sam falls asleep slowly to the feeling of his hair getting pet. Dean falls asleep minutes after his little brother.

—

It must be around four am when Dean wakes up, something blunt digging against his hip. He doesn’t think too much about it until he turns his head, realizes that his little brother is sleeping with his body pressed against the side of Dean’s.

Dean has to choke back a loud gasp when he realizes what the situation was. A feeling of unspeakable intent washed over him and he wanted to do nothing explore this hazardous territory.

He is about to reach down his hand; just to cradle it, just to feel it once in his most likely short and miserable life. But he stops himself. Tells himself to just go, don’t mind it, just take care of his own business and leave. Sam. Alone.

But for some reason he can’t bare himself to lift the covers and walk away. Maybe because Sam’s arm is across his chest and he knows that his little brother is a light sleeper, or maybe because…

He doesn’t finish that thought, just softly kicks away the cover to Sam’s side and pulls down his pyjama pants so that the elastic band is right beneath his balls. He wraps his hand around his hardening dick and gives it a few strokes, his eyes stuck on the contours of Sam’s full-on erection.

He starts doing it harder, and has to bite his lip so that he doesn’t wake Sam up with his moans. It’s over almost as quickly as it started, and Dean can’t help but mouthing his little brother’s name, something he hasn’t allowed himself to do since before Sam left for Stanford.

Sam hears his brother fall asleep slowly and just then realizes that he has been holding his breath.

—

Dean shifts in his sleep, turning his back to Sam; making the uncomfortable position they were in earlier even worse.

Sam couldn’t take care of his erection with Dean awake — and it was hard not letting go, hearing him go at it — and he hasn’t mustered the energy to get himself out of bed, and his dick has most certainly not calmed down since.

But now, Dean is with his back against him and Sam’s dick, that used to lie peacefully just barely poking Dean’s hip, is throbbing right underneath his ass.

Sam wants to stab himself in the gut for this. Wants to run away and never come back. Wants to go back to his normal life with Amelia, where her cuddles would make the thoughts of Dean go away. But in the end, it would always be them, wouldn’t it? It would always end up being Sam and Dean against the world, no matter how sick or deranged or terrible it became.

—

Sam doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but he sure as heck knows that he wakes up to smell pancakes. Real, non-burnt pancakes. Like a little child on Christmas morning he throws off his blanket and goes past the paper maché wall separating the living/bedroom and the kitchen.

“Wow”, he says at the stack of pancakes, high enough to be a miniature Empire State Building. “What is all this?” 

Dean chuckles. “I’m showing you how much better I am at everything you do”, he says and starts frying the last set of pancakes. The table is already set, so Sam just stands there in awe, watching his brother work at the stove; like he’s meant for it. Some day, someone is going to wife Dean and they’re going to live not regretting that ever. Until then, Sam is going to pretend that he’s the lucky guy with Dean’s ring around his finger.

“What are you waiting for?” Dean asks, pulling Sam out of his thoughts. Dean is already sitting and halfway through stuffing his face with fluffy pancakes.

It’s almost as if that night was forgotten.

—

Though things like that are hard to oppress, and if you’ve done something as scary and adrenaline filling as that once, you’d like to do it again.

It might be Dean’s fault, who keeps on doing it every morning, with Sam curled up against him; and it might be Sam’s fault, pushing his erection onto Dean’s hip or into the small of his back so hard that Dean  _ has _ to do it.

It’s weeks. Months, even.

And then Sam starts.

Purposely wakes up in the middle of the night just to jerk off right next to Dean, knows that his big brother wakes up as soon as he starts shifting, knows that Dean enjoys this little game of theirs as much as he does.

It’s takes another couple of months before Dean finally breaks.

“How was she in bed?” he asks Sam underneath his breath and at first Sam doesn’t know who he’s talking about.

“Loud”, Sam says, slowly pumping his dick. “She would act innocent right before we got to bed, but when there she was almost a monster.”

He can feel Dean nod against his chest, knows that Dean is taking in every sound Sam is giving away.

“She would wrap her legs around my waist and put her hands on my ass”, Sam continues, his strokes becoming faster.

“Yeah?” Dean breathes. “Did you like it?”

“Loved it”, Sam replies. “But it was even better when she acted like a wife.”

Dean’s breath hitches.

“She’d cook something very cheesy, like a roast beef and we’d drink wine to it”, Sam continues. “Then she would drag me to bed and promise to do anything to make me feel good. As if she was my slave and I was her God, as if she were only there to please me. Like a wife.”

He feels how close he is, just a few more strokes before…

A sudden weight collapses over him and Sam pulls away his hand in shock.

“I want to be like your wife too”, Dean says against his little brothers’ chin, rolling their hips together and moaning.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, breathless.

“I want to be here just for your pleasure”, Dean continues. “I want you to take my body whenever you want it; while I’m cooking, while driving, while sleeping. Whenever you feel like it.”

“I want that too”, Sam says against Dean’s cheek, tilting his head so that they can finally kiss. Dean continues rutting his clothed erection against Sam’s bare one, not bothering to take his pants off.

Their mouths are still exploring each other as they come and Dean, finally, says his little brothers’ name out loud.

Sam looks up at Dean from underneath his hair. Dean smiles and brushes it away.

“Dean…” Sam says, his voice thick and filled with something Dean would describe as regret, if he didn’t know better.

“Sam, please don’t”, Dean whispers. He doesn’t continue the sentence; they both know the end.  _ Please don’t regret this, please don’t push me away, please don’t give me this just to take it from me _ .

“Dean, this is legit”, Sam says and Dean doesn’t know what he expected but it certainly wasn’t that. “You… You can’t take any of that back now, okay?”

Dean chuckles joyfully, wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck, and nuzzling his face into the space between his chin and his chest.

“I’m a man of my word, Samuel”, he says to him. “And it it’s the final thing you do, you’re going to fucking wife me.”


End file.
